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Dig It! Press Presents: 

Wake of the Flood: a journal 

Dig It! Press 2013 
Denver/Boulder, CO 

Body text & page numbers set in Garamond No. 8 Regular; titles and author names set in Arabic Typesetting Regular 
All type was set using Scribus 1.4.1, OpenSource publishing environment ( to download, donate or learn 
more about OpenSource) 

All rights to work belongs to authors 

This journal was conceived as an effort in the direction of documentary poetics/documentary publishing, to create a record or artifact, as well 
as an experiment in trying to offer a community experiencing a traumatic event a venue to meet the issue creatively. I will say however that 
the project fell short simply in the outreach; ie this journal, while exhibiting some very high quality work, does not portray a very accurate 
cross-section of the population I wished to engage. My ideal would have been (is) to engage the broader community with workshops, etc. to 
help people understand the value of creatively engaging (specifically through poetry & performance) challenging and jarring events. A more 
proactive community engagement with communities is a direction I have intended to take Dig It! in from the conception. Anyways, that's 
what experimentation is about, right? 

-Love & Struggle 
Geoff Bylina 

This journal was released on 10/26/13 with a sh ow featuring performances from Matt Clifford, Matt Bovard, Eleanore Tisch, Geoff Bylina, 
Ben Martens & Dan Halpern. It is also available for free on the internet as a .pdf. All money, after printing costs, from journal sales and 
donations at the show is for community based flood relief efforts. To download the the magazine, hear recordings from the release party, 
and to stay involved with Dig It! please visit and/ or digitpressonline 


Nico Dagaz 

At The Mercy of the Rains 

Douglas Campbell 

A Waiting River 
Mary-Laurence Bevington 

A Poem for the Space, Earth, Wind, Fire and Water in Us All 
Ariella Ruth 

the morning should have been completely hollow 
Chris Kepple 

Barefoot Girls 
Julien Blundel 

rejoicing after two days off school because of a flood 
Adam Perry 

On Broadway 
Eleanore Tisch 

Flood Poems 
Johnathon Montgomery 

I Liked The Flood 
Dan Halpern 

Liquid Rock 

Bare Bones 
Eric Michaelson 

Flood #2 
Ben Martens 

She Dreamt She Let Her Hair Down 
Elyse Brownell & Christopher Shugrue 

Flood Song 

At the Mercy of the Rains 

A small apocalypse; 
waters come screaming down 
five days into roads 
and yards, the creeks rising, 
bloating out, catching cars 
that have to be abandoned, 
filling basements that 
will never quite dry out. 

I hear news, and bike down the hill 
with my dog on a leash, to see 
the floodwaters take over 
the four lane road that leads 
to the highways. Sheep and people 
have been evacuated from the farms 
just west of here. 
The whole valley is 
underwater. Since monday, two 
have drowned. 

The mountains stand 

against the clouds above the floodplain 

from here they look peaceful, but 

along their body mud and grit 

break and slide 

toward the valleys, creeks 

have become huge and wrathful, 

they take the passes 

into their mouths 

and spit them out, 

pushing on 

to the Platte. 

There is some sun now 

comes whispering through the trees 

beyond the window, 

plants touched by a pattern of 

raindrops, so many shades 

of growth, along the sidewalk 

a six inch worm 

stretches and bends. 

Nico Dagaz 


Swift water 

breaks and shimmers, 

oscillates it's body 

over rocks, 

over flora, 

into doorways, 

turning brown, 

it tricks us into thinking 

of softness, 

while hiding teeth 

that will shred 


My house 
has become a swamp. 
I walk out and map 
the residue 
of rain. New 
chasms and gullies, 
new hills have formed, 
everywhere the water 
sheds her milk, 
laughing at the scattered 
breath of humans. 

Nico Dagaz 

A Waiting River 

Soft gurgling through the thrush over smooth rocks 
moss covered clay - clover and Tall patches of grass 
throated crickets and the short lives of mayflies. 
Moonlight will lead hooves and wings to water again. 
The river is just below the floodwater - waiting for spring. 

A Poem for the Space, Earth, Wind, Fire and Water in Us All 

Prayer Invocation: 

"Hold us in light, so we may be strong through the night" 
I begin: 

We are dry, loft apartment - on top of high ground - the French Quarter, were there 
were one in Boulder-town. 

Around in every direction the neighborhood sinks with sog, clay, mud, river rocks 
resting on paved corridors; mattresses and ceiling tiles by the dumpster. 

Strange debris has washed up on the sidewalks: reading glasses, single flip flops, 
saturated baguettes. 

The low foothills avalanche Dakota sand stone, gaping swaths - like dirt runaway 
truck ramps on the mountain side, one after the other. 

The main vein roads run, but many peripheral ways are pot-holing, or buckling, or 
just plain gone. The ways into the mountains - some - fully collapse into the maw. 

Severe clear is no where near with low clouds to roof tops, and more Rain comin' 
down Atlanta-like, 'round spring time. 

The difference is that Boulder soil is old sea bed and beach, petrified magma and 
air. As such, the water doesn't drop to the low tree roots; it drains down, down, 
down fanning into lakes on the eastern plains. 

Now low clouds block the high country from Black Hawk helicopters. Big dark birds in 
the maelstrom sky. 

We're just under the flight path, and no engines have sounded since this morning 
when the rain started again. 

People are on new Colorado islands, blocked off in Ward, Jamestown, Four Mile; 
hoping for reprieve. The river's taken in so much in Lyons that it may be changing 

Even the roses droop for want of sun rays. 



the morning should have been completely hollow 

the morning should have been completely hollow, ash folds over canals and dry wings wait for 
solace, it was the morning he told me a flood would be great right now, and a tidal wave began 
small at my fingertips and spread intravenous from left to right, removing pain is a swandive of 
violence, if i had to choose whether to see my life become air, or get tossed away in bath water, i 
would choose a steady stream of watermarks and pines that bend and shift shape at the tree line. 


cracks breathe 
toward the sky 
begs her mother 
to let down 
a drop. 

Ariella Ruth 


scripture painted over; this seam 

swallowed by toxins 

will be washed 

by water 

slow rising 




in mid-stream 

rushing water freezes my feet in between stones, soft from repeated whispers and waterfingers 
that grace their sewn edges, my toenails turn violet and curl toward the stones' vulnerable 
insides. water picks up from a melting snowfall miles away up the mountains, their voices are 
muffled and gasp for sunlight & oxygen, the last light before heavy speed and rushing 
overhead becomes the last thing they'll hear, they are told the mountains are heaven, they 
wonder how high the water will rise. 

Ariella Ruth 

flood light 

this is a warning system test 

is a warning system this 

is a warning system test is a warning 

system this is a 

warning system 


is a warning system test 
is a warning system test 
is a warning system test 
is a warning system test 

Barefoot Girls 


The memory quickens the creek in the rain. The rain taps at all doors anxiously repeating a 
memory. Somewhere in the rain Caballo Blanco is running. Somewhere Ivy Baldwin is 
walking high up tiptoeing on drip drops. The drops pause for him and form wire. Water 
forms wire. His feet are wet, his hair is wet. What falls on him he also walks on. The wind 
in is his nature and holds him aloft. He is weightless finally. Great relief to a wire walker. 
Great mystery to a raindrop and a cloud. 

The creek is no longer a creek it is now a river. Up above in the canyon a sea persistently 
smashes against break wall of mountain road. Licking at the cliffs, which torment with shade 
and isolation, with stature. Sending up jagged white signals exactly as great waves do. 

It rains soberly, persistently like lumberjacks chopping down the sky. Lumberjacks who 
loudly go on eating cloud sandwiches to fortify their effort. It rains in sound waves and 
particles of warning messages from bloated loudspeakers. It rains, bellowing 
pronouncements, do not cross the creek. The era of peace and quiet ends like a drunken 
journey on horseback to a wedding. The sky beats the land as the man beats his horse. 
Baldwin gets off the rain wire and walks briefly uncertainly over pronouncements. He 
almost falls off the word "warning" it wobbles hard. The firemen are laying into the W with 
their axes. The threat is teetering yet holds. What is this warning? There is no creek 
anymore, only river. Not raging but tumbling. Not pacing but careening. Not forcing but 
convincing everything. 


Bring anger down the mountain. The lost body of the old lady hiker that was never found 
has now melted into aquifer. Her long death grown fingernails weightless scratch the spinal 
cords of clouds. The mountain lions band together to pray for our demise. The hawks fly in 
magic circles to summon a wet conspiracy. The elbow of the world is bending against 
mankind. The horse is confused as to why his owner is leaving him hands tied behind his 


The river is brown and confident. It disrupts with elegance, which cannot be argued with. It 
is a coil, a spring. It is flung here and there and retrieved before it has gone anywhere. It is 
the cause and result. It is the rope with no end and no beginning. 

Christopher Kepple 


A wall of water is coming down the creek, seek higher ground immediately. They lie again. A 
wall of water is coming from the sky. No shoe girls with backs against fences, creek/ river/ seas at 
their bellies. The wall will weep sacrifices away. Trees hunker down for the argument, as strong 
and indifferent as ever. They put on robes, swing gavels and watch the proceedings with detached 
awe. Saplings fight for their lives. They will not realize it is over until they lay dead and dry. 
Tree consciousness is on delay. Trees see their lives unfold backwards at death. The wind turns 
around. Trees see their branches suck leaves in and grow short and small, roots shrink and 
arboreal viewpoints lower. We too see our lives flash before us. 

On drunken chariots the soil makes its migration express. "Lets go" say a trillion specs of earth. 
They do go, until they are one immense snake, brown and fattening slip sliding down the 
mountain. Toward barefoot girls, backs to the fence, bellies to the river. RIVER of brown and 
white veins flashing. RIVER of fireman's flame meets the wet sparks of drunken horseshoe on 
metal curb. 

For the homeless man under the bridge it was the last teardrop. The tracing out of his body by 
water was accurate. The filling of his void complete, water for water and on he went whirling mad 
dying on the current that doesn't know itself. In his blood the whiskey flowed hotter than the 
river and laughed out loud at water. In his lungs the mountain went to sleep, at last free from the 
raging snake-rope with no end and no beginning. 

The drinking began and was inevitable. As the rain fell steady, the liquor poured harder. The 
liquor drained into the river down throats. Beers flooded out the door of Liquor Mart. Hands 
tipped the waves higher. Wine crashed over rocks into stomachs foaming white harmless death 
away. Wine poured like river ran naked unconcerned. The brown whiskey swam like mud water. 
The brown water shook like whisky mountain wagon wheel. A dam of wine glasses held the 
deluge back. A case of gin was the only sandbag. A trickle of poison kept the devils in their 
sleeping bags. A dram of destruction began the duel, the drinking game of flooded lips and 
canyons. The beer bubbled like the bottoms of new waterfalls. It careened like mad elephant blue 
Buicks and would not subside. The drinking began slowly, one drink escalating into thirteen. The 
throats opened wide like whole towns for the rape and conquests of disaster. The tongues could 
do little to fight back. The drinking as much as the disaster turned from speculation to certainty. 
Suddenly the drunken stomach holds all the floodwater in Colorado, churning impenetrable waste 
aquarium. In disaster we are distilled to duende, to dark passion. 

The creek is a vein, pushed to the limits of varicosity. Old horse heart pumped into overdrive, as 
leaky sump pump submerged works in last gasps. Old tractor set down an impossibly steep hill 
destined to break apart. Old hearts pump beyond capacity until rupture. Veins multiplying 
sugary blood water, now one vein. Before the end, names and bottles of gin are traded back and 
forth and used as sandbags to fight off the terror of drowning. One harbor, full of young life, 
repeating the theatrics of tide, naked now clothed, naked now, clothed. Repeating the constant 
coming on and fleeing. Repeating tides drag names out to sea and change them to identities. 


Cast in order of disappearance: 

Ivy Baldwin the famous wirewalker from Boulder. "Baldwin was small in stature, barely 
weighed 100 pounds and 5'3" in height. His slight figure belied his courage and adventurous 
spirit. His most dangerous walk took place in San Francisco in 1885, when he walked a wire 
stretched over the Pacific Ocean from Cliff House to Seal Rocks with a pounding surf 
below." (Boulder History Museum) 

Caballo Blanco a man who ran. "Micah True (November 10, 1953 - March 27, 2012), born 
Michael Randall Hickman and also known as Caballo Blanco, was an American 
ultrarunner from Boulder, Colorado," (Wikipedia) 

Lady who disappeared on the trail, "It's been a year since Lafayette resident Patricia 
Wallace went missing while hiking the Buchanan Pass Trail in western Boulder County, but 
the search for Wallace - who officials presume is dead - is no closer to a resolution than it 
was the day she went missing." (Daily Camera) 

"A 45-year-old Colorado Springs man is facing charges of drunken horseback riding, animal 
cruelty and the prohibited use of weapons after University of Colorado police on Monday 
interrupted what he claimed was a 600-mile journey from Larkspur to Bryce, Utah, to 
attend a wedding. Police began receiving calls about Patrick Neal Schumacher's unusual 
journey around 2:14 p.m., according to CU police spokesman Ryan Huff." (Daily Camera) 

oicing after two days off school because of a 

I was eating with friends 

out at some restaurant, one with a name 

that means nothing, 

and I asked them a question. 

Earlier, I had heard a story about a woman 
who was being washed away 
in the flash flood 

which all of us had not been washed away in. 

Her boyfriend jumped in after her 

and was killed. Her body went missing. 

What I asked was: what do you do in this situation? 

Your loved one is being taken by the river, what do you do? 

And I received answers that did not satisfy me. Answers 

I should have expected. 

"I would jump in, I guess." 

"There's no use jumping in, 

then both of you would die, run alongside, 

call for help." 

I said I think he did the right thing. 
"Why?" someone asked 
"Because he is dead." 

I stood up and left, sat on the grass outside, 
watched the blades move with the wind. 

It was not a question of practice. 

What do you do in this situation? I realized, really meant 
What do you do with grief? 
I was asking, 

what do you do with grief? 

Grief that runs like a flood washing what you love away. 
I was asking, how do you live if you cannot make yourself 
jump in after? 

Julien Blundel 

I walked around the city of Boulder 

which was running smoothly again 

the day after the flood, with all the people 

and all the cars and all the buildings and the mountains and even the 

that were not washed away, 
moving again, 
buying groceries, 

and listening to music in the aisles of Barnes&Nobles. 
And I guess that is how you live with it. 

Julien Blundel 

On Broadway 

couldn't sleep as the doorknob moved in dreams 
and the windows opened, the river churned 
streets overflowing with sometime 

strings sleepwalking into her room, coasting over a bridge 
I hunched over in jeans at midnight and cried 
let me listen, let me feel who you are 
and become the drums of ritual 
who saw the king speak before you wiped my tears 
you said, "I love you" and we drifted along Casco Bay 
I chopped wood for winter and your mother said, 
"That's your man" 

like one runaway train caressing another, attached 

the pavement seemed to move with the weight of our hands 

folding together 

and none of our lines came to an end 

I asked you for a touch, just a corner of your mouth 

and you smiled, everything changed 

or became wet with all the moments to come, 

the rivlets tingling when we could speak or sing for days, and still can 

it always meant something, it always does 

it always sounds like Elvin Jones screaming 

when I'd meet you before dawn, crawling into bed 

as the sun woke, the stone house growing warm with us 

we said hello and time vibrated like the first crocus 

there was space for flowers, a hand on your desk 

and you held my face with your fingers, turned it, 

said the words only "Lush Life" without words could explain, 

and I said it too: 

there is work to do, digging around 

burying a birthday cake, 

no more putting out fires, because it's a flood 

no more sleep, as we three are feathered all over 

and this is where i'll find me 

Flood Poems 


F hesitates 
L is a plateau 

O's ebb basements flow forcefully under cracks indoors, loot through mud, surface 
metal tenses over saturated syllables, wet and heavy carpet, tongue flounders in mouth 
D caresses teeth. 


Flash: not fast enough to blind shutters gutters roads destroyed orphaned animals 
perch on porch couches, drench surrounds an air bubble does not burst. 


The majority of me is you, double u, two cups water one cup rice, a whimsy letter the 
printing press uses only for German, awesome in destruction wa sh away texture all but 
sharp to tastebuds, apology in e - evaporate, tidal wave roll out. 

Eleanore Tisch 

I Liked the Flood 

I liked how there was a flood 

How it just kept raining and it was harmless at first and suddenly it was a disaster 

I liked how I was driving the cab and all of a sudden there was deep water on the roads and my 
wheels could barely go over it 

I liked how my car got stuck cuz it was too deep and how I had to force the gas pedal down all the 
way to get it to move forward 1 mph or else it would've sunk for good and I woulda been stranded 
on top of the roof calling out for help 

I was terrified when I got home and I liked it 

I like how I went on the internet and saw pictures of other cars stuck and reports of evacuations 
and and I liked how someone died 

A mudslide rammed right into his mountain home and suffocated his mouth with mud and rocks 
until he didn't have enough oxygen to be alive 

Yes! I said, its finally happening, the destruction of it all 

And finally I could just worry about the water in front of me instead of money, women, and 
artistic success, everyone would understand 

I liked it, road closings, and dams breaking and ruined basement carpets 

I liked taking pictures the next day of dead animals, garbage cans were in the creek and crayfish 
were on the sidewalk and the prairie dogs all drowned 

I liked not going to work cuz it was too dangerous 

I liked putting a bucket under my leaking ceiling and letting it fill up and then dumping it in the 
toilet every hour or so, I liked how the drops from the ceiling would spray out a little and soon 
my shoulder was moist 

I liked the sound of helicopters bringing in evacuees to the airport 

I liked the sounds of pumps and rushing creek and more rain pounding down 

I liked the carpets and drywall piles at the end of every driveway 

Police cars and back hoes, the warnings from the national weather service on the radio and that 
screech of noise that precedes them 

I liked hearing all the stories from people in the cab, almost everyone had damage 

Jonathon Montgomery 

I liked smelling the mold on my damp carpet and going to home depot for anti-mold spray, I 
liked how I couldn't breath at night, the mold got into the depth of my lungs and tried to 
multiply itself and my immune system tried desperately to expel it, I coughed so much and I 
didn't sleep and I liked it 

I liked telling everyone in the cab about it and asking for their advice, "what do you know 
about mold?" 

I liked how the ceiling one morning started to lump down and then crack and then the water 
started dripping more forcefully from more places and how the crack started to grow and 
how it started to turn at a right angle and it seemed like part of the ceiling might fall down 
right over my desk and I got the computer out of the way just in time before part the ceiling 
actually did collapse and it made a big boom and wet insulation fell all over and on my back 
and I had to wipe it off my t-shirt and I had to rescue as many important items as I could 
from the wet smelly mess and some books of mine were destroyed forever, like Ken Kesey's 
'Demon Box' 

I liked telling everyone about and getting my parents advice and going to stay indefinitely at 
my friends' house in broomfield 

I like how Broomfield is suburbs and all they have are RV's and fences and neighbors walking 
across the street to return tupperware 

I liked being fifteen miles away from my home and spending slightly more money on gas 

And I liked going to state farm insurance and discussing possibly getting FEMA aid 

I like how other people have it worse, like some people lost their whole house, like some 
people lost their whole entire lives 

I really really liked it, finally, we got to stop the big imaginary game and concern ourselves 
with something real like the water that was directly in front of us 

And now I'm mad because it's not flooding anymore, I don't like how the sun came back out 
and dried everything 

I don't like how time keeps moving forward and the flood is becoming past 

One day soon I'll be back in my trailer in the old routine and I won't even remember flood 

I will just sit there thinking at my desk about all the things I'm supposed to be doing and how 
if I was someone a little more superior to myself I could be doing them, money, love, success, 
you know the imaginary life, not the real life, not like the flood life 

I loved the flood, I wish it was always flooding, don't you? 

Jonathon Montgomery 

Liquid Rock 

Most of this rock is water! 

I watch the summer slide down my 

sun-gazing window 

today: all green 

and gray 

in skin-exposed shorts and 

open-button t-shirts 
the geckos laze the puddle 
dirt driveways 

in the electric-light night of 
humid loverain 
I see homes of leaves slow-swaying over streets 

the winter 
white pine trees and 


and remember 

Dan Halpern 

Bare Bones 

i bled out moldy sunshine from the inside of my throat 

cause the rain washed spill the oil from the heart of humanity's unquestioned assumptions, 
suppressed, repressed, maltreated and objectified... 

The Other swam through the flood for fifty years without coming up for air. Those 
Watching stayed on one dock, seeing it split ten thousand different ways with the same words 
painted in blood on the wood: "Right" and "Wrong." Always where the others stood. 

a war between ideas, 

while your daughters are simply thirsty. 

ReHumanization, Revolution, Understanding and Compassion, 
antagonize your own grave. 

Flood #2 

Let's start again, she said to me 

Softly and without reason 

She seemed to know something I didn't 

About patience and the unbearable pain of 


I was attempting to run from the water 
Soaking my already saturated brain when 
I came across a fictitious power I'd never seen 

Nor heard 

Nor cared to hear again 

A laden man of fallacy 

A burden of numbers on a screen 

A lane of nuanced sanity 

But because there was no one to blame 
There was no need for fame 
But it still came 

And hold out a hand to the youth underneath 
And hold out a jagged blade to the luck 
Found tucked underneath my muddied feet 

Abstractly walking down an ex-street 
Defining my privacy 
Soundlessly sweet 

But because there was no one to play 
There was no need for game 
But it still came 

A light jaunt in the wilderness fondling 

My glorious sense of naivety 

Banal and meaningless 

When compared to the fountain 

Of thought-provoking realities 

We'd seen each moment 

Growing discontent with my abstract sense 

Of glorified naivety 

Eric Michaelson 

But because there was no one to fight 
There was no need for shame 
But it still came 

Where does the inspiration go 

When where we left it gets swept away 

When dreams of perfection become ruined by the mud 

How well will you remember me 
When I become a memory 

Look up, she said 
I didn't 

Instead, those pursed lips found a floating candle 
Burning with hope 
And love 

And fear and pain and resistance and valor and mightiness and heartache and sorrow 
And unbending assurance that availability 
Would always be there 

That things can pass 
That things will pass 

That things have passed 

A finality had finally come 
For some 

And victory could not be measured in win and lose 
For we'd found a vital message 
Drying out our wilted sense of pride 

And there was you 
And there was me 
Divorcing the tragedy 

Forcing the sea 

Erich Michaelson 

She Dreamt She Let Her Hair Down 

She Closes Her Eyes and Sighs And Her Hair lesces like Pulse 
the land(((((((((0))))))))))))the waterways 
her hair(((((0))))))))))stretching and winding 
peaks to oceans(((((0)))))))))))))) culverts ravines 
streams canals rivers toilets (((((0))))))taps pipes hoses bodies trees 
out entangled her earth hair(((((0)))))water icle emanate in on 
fishsoaked hair((((((((((0))))))))flowlocked hair 
dreadwater mud hair((((((((((((((0)))))))feasting and fullhair 
swollen blue yarn(((((((0))))))))))))))))crawl watersnakes 
over brackmuck(((((((((((0))))))))))))))tween scalebark 
bridges like zippers((((((((((((0))))))))))))))))))))bend open at her flow 

splashes old greybeards(((((((((((((((0))))))))))))))))))))))))))corpse^ 
despondent homeless(((((((((((((((((0))))))))))))))))))))unsheltered cats 

dripping flowing ((((((((((((0))))))))))))) soaking slicing 
mumbling about something((((((((((((((0))))))))))))))))))))bad very bad 
a child's doll(((((((0)))))))pineneedles in stuffing 
a wedding ring(((((((0)))))))))))unloved widow 
chihuahua frantic(((((((((0)))))))))))))))))))))basement apartment 
she never found(((((((0)))))))his journals neath the bed 
crying loudly(((((((((((0)))))))))))))))celebrate the dead 
exultant medusascream((((((((((((Q))))))))))ejaculate sky waters 
mudtorrent squalor((((((((((((0))))))))calendar breaker 
better n TV(((((((0))))))))flood sex 
irresistible chasm((((((0)))))))))))domination unstoppable 
mudslick supermarket ((((0)))))))))))))))))))))))septic baguettes 
folly endeavors(((((((0))))))))))))))))))she's hungry 
squiggling overbanks(((((((((000))))))))))))wriggling underhomes 
precious shit undone(((((((00000))))))))fuck your house 
fuck you all((((0000000)))))))))water elephant 
skyblaster beambuster((000000000))cloudscream woodmoan 
million layer breakbeat(00000000000)billion dollar mincemeat 
the dragon's teethOOOOOOOOOOOOOthe primal feast 

crack rocks((((((((((((((0)))))))))))))))creates life 

rise engorges((((((((((0))))))))))))))))))))))))batters conscience 


vomits biketires((((((((0)))))))))))stills bodies 

forever unquestioned(((((((((((((0)))))))))))))))))silent no more 


wordless not dumb says 

Ben Martens 

Flood Song 

There are photos of devastation that line the street we live on. A yellow rope is underground, 
touching silk smooth vanes below the current. It rained for three days. All you ever hear is 
rain, eyelets blinking, sockets left dry, all you ever do is rain, lover. The white-grey sky has 
been opened for days. We stay tucked inside while eyeing our neighbor's canoe. Her papery, 
chestnut stone canoe could not survive here. 

Wake of the flood, laughing water: Streets rivers under sky torn wide and falling. Dream 
testimonies of front range devastation roll in wireless waves: a groundswell from Virginia, 
Vancouver, Seattle, the banks of the Potomac testifying: helicoptered evacuations, 400 foot 
canyon rock slides, expect wall of water to hit, to hit the mouth in 23 minutes . . . don't just 
stand there dreaming ... get out the way ... of reports streaming from land locking us in. 
Look outside, no dream: just rain. 

After the evacuations began we walked to the store to buy bottled water. The shelf, sparse, 
dense, lit by the generator, was empty. Floating shelves under the generator lights. My 
organs, one by one, levitated and drifted down near the shores of the parking lots. Their 
yellow barriers appeared to be floating too. I am a trespasser in someone's natural disaster. I 
am body overwhelmed by drowning trees. 

We walk to the store, snapping photos of parking lot lakes, grocery carts filled with gallons of 
milk, flotsam, jetsam. Why buy water when we can just dip our buckets in falling sky? We 
stare somewhere just off center of apocalypse, watch the bear splash in wells once dry: it just 
rains but i say here comes sunshine, lover, all you ever do is shine, sweet lover, you smile and 
around your glow still ... it just rains. 

All we could think to purchase at the store was a package of white tea lights. Their wicks 
stay lit as they drift down the sidewalks to someone in need, their bottoms drowning, their 
rafted bones stay afloat. Lover, all you ever do is rain with your white-grey sky left open, 
lover, all you ever do is rain, empty your pockets. 

We also buy wax poured in glass, painting of a saint on the front. A man, arms full of sainted 
candles, says: "for one dollar ninety-nine, Saint Jude will light your way." But can he stop 
the water? Mountains wash away: can he stop the water? I am adrift, confused by disaster, a 
watery ghost in half light, but you, lover, all you do is shine as we fill our basket. 

Plastic is drenched in lovers turmoil, drenched in yesterdays rain washed ashore by mountain 
glorious remains. A basket is no good to bail out this entrapment when laced with tiny 
holes. Let then, let on, let me build you a boat made out of this debris, muddied sandy 
footprints on concrete, I'd build you a boat of these memories to catch fire to later. Our 
flame ignited from papery canoe, ignition in madness without drought, ignition in amorous 
river banks. Two crows are waiting for us. 

Elyse Brownell & Chris Shugrue 

See those two crows on a wire safe and dry above the torrent; them twa corbies need no boat. Good to 
know you got shoes to wear when you find the floor. Why hold out for more? And in the wake of the 
flood them crows will wing to higher elevations. Them crows will wing to croak and caw in mountain 
pine, to wing and sing on mountain air: to heal, to baptize those in need of shelter. Here comes 
sunshine . . . God promised Noah to not drown the world again, to take the rainbow as a sign. I am a 
skeptic, so build me that boat; I'll run to the shore for the paddles. 

We will rise from flooded cities along the front range and listen for the song. Call for back-ups of 
sunshine, of light, of hope, of rivers roaring to whisper's delight. Find the bluest of blues left over in 
the sky to knit a quilt for those in need. Tuck away in at night, do not remember the storm but what 
comes after: life, anew, softer than skin to skin touch. If I could only stand here long enough in 
someone else's natural light, you could see the outline of my rays. Ghostly night calls, I will wait for 
you in October's aspen groves, completely grown over, waiting for winter's night to come and sin 

To remember what comes after: mother scrubbed, soft and clean: thirsted spirit replenished: 
communities drawn together, unbroken chains after blue light rains, to sing love's sweet song anew: for 
in the death of a thing rebirth always follows. We will never regain what went down in the flood but I 
will fly to the grove with you, crow, and whisper quaking aspen golden secrets in October twilight; I 
will sing to you a song of waters always receding after the deluge. Come now: take my wing and bend 
your ear to hear my song: one more time; been down before but here comes the sun; here comes the 
sun. See them shafts of light through rent clouds illuminating outlined mountains returning. 

Each day we set earlier than before, laying down our blankets, hushed mouths and find one another 
again in slumber. After the storm perhaps we will know when to begin again, singing lovers notes of a 
sparrows' slender wings. The first day of our lives could begin when clouds part and the mystery of 
the ocean is found in the horizon. Lover, the rain has stopped and the geese fly in more than v's to 
southern lands. Find me there, there, here, after the truth has surfaced from crashing manes of wild 
horses. Lover, lay your softness next to mine and hear my song: a melody of our past lives washed 
away from flood lines, an island of two left behind to begin anew. 

Sometimes we have no choice but to start again. Sometimes the mountain makes no promises, and 
we're forced to scramble for higher ground. Sometimes we must fly away, fly away, only to look back 
sweet lover, to see spirits blow towns off the map and leave nothing there but water, tumbling rock, 
and hillsides of mud slide to that silence below. But fear not for poets sing the earth will see us on 
through this time; the earth will see us on through this time. And I believe them. Smile, smile, smile. 
The rain has stopped; we are stronger now than when it began. 

It is only after we crumble do we begin to build stronger than ever before. Let us build bridges, build 
tunnels, build passageways to better connect us. Why stay silent in a world of strong valiant voices? 
Why be kept in solitude, window left open waiting for the connection of sound waves from our 
neighbors. Perhaps the rain came to remind us we still need each other, that the walls knocked down 
never should have been built. Mother always had a strange way of telling us, showing us, mending us, 
loving us. Why let a map create borders for us? Sweet neighbor, darling one, may I sit still with you in 
your papery canoe and wait for the sun to arrive? 

Elyse Brownell & Chris Shugrue 

Dig It! Press is a small press project with the goal of community building in mind, and more arms than just 
printing books. Dig It! is concerned with the role language plays in the advancement of struggle, 
liberation/ dismantling of oppression and freeing/raising consciousness; the cross-section (or the spectrum) of 
the avant-garde with concrete. In the middle lies performance. Dig It! is pure counter-culture, tracing routes 
from the Jack Kerouac School at Naropa University, by freight train, back to Allen Ginsberg, punk rock/DIY 
culture, on back to the Merry Pranksters, the Grateful Dead, the Acid Tests, still on to the Diggers and the San 
Francisco Mime Troupe by way of Haight Street which leads us back to the beats and their lineage and still 
back to the original squatters, the Wigan Diggers of 16th Century England. 

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Dig It! Press 2013